


The Old Conceits

by stoprobbers



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Parallels, Post-Episode: s02e09 The Gate, Romance, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-12 00:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15328224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoprobbers/pseuds/stoprobbers
Summary: "Yeah," he cuts her off, shaking his head slightly as if clear his thoughts. "No, I—I don't want to be alone. Do you?"A rush of déjà vu hits her strong enough to make her sway on her feet, makes her hesitate and stutter."No, I—No."





	The Old Conceits

She doesn't want to go home.

They have to force Steve to go to the hospital. He tries to pull an attitude but it's useless; he can barely focus his eyes. He smells like gasoline and smoke and dirt, and he won't tell them why. Just props his less-damaged cheek on one hand and lets his eyes slip shut then snap open until Hopper grabs the back of his jacket and walks him out to his truck, promising over his shoulder to Joyce that he'll be back shortly.

The kids are gathered around Eleven, Max hovering at the edges. She is the only one who looks up when Hopper leaves.

Joyce looks more tired and more sad than Nancy has ever seen her. She mumbles something about checking on Will and taking a shower, and shuffles off down the hall.

And just like that, Nancy is alone.

It seems wrong; something is off, unbalanced. She does the count again in her head. Will: in bed. Joyce: in her room. Mike and his friends: Living room. Steve and Hopper: Hospital. Billy Hargrove: Who knows and who cares. Jonathan—

Jonathan.

A surge of annoyance rushes through her; he is too good at disappearing and she is too good at letting him. She's not sure when, exactly, she lost track of him, but she's damn sure going to find him.

She stomps down the hall to where his bedroom is, pushes the door open accusingly, but he's not there. There's a haphazard pile of construction paper littering his bed, Will's drawings torn down from the walls, but no sign of him. For a moment her world tilts on its axis, panic surging through her, and she whirls back to the hallway, ready to run, to chase him down wherever he's gone.

She's about to start sprinting when she hears it, faint through a door and half a hallway: the shower.

He's in the shower.

She looks down at herself. Her pink undershirt has mostly dried, but it is stiff and streaked with salt. Her hair is gritty and stringy and she can smell herself, wafting in waves from under her arms, between her legs. She feels disgusting.

She hesitates at the door, hand against the wood. This intimacy between them is new and not new at the same time. A year of dancing around each other in the daylight and reaching out at night, baring their emotions and fears with whispers over telephone lines when the rest of the house sleeps, brought them closer together a long time ago. It was emotional infidelity, she supposes, though at the time it just felt like friendship.

Still, she has only seen his bare skin once, has only run her hands over his shoulders and his back and his chest and his hips for the first time less than a day ago. He'd blushed when she pushed his pajama pants down, a brighter pink than the flush of arousal that had bloomed across his skin the moment she slammed the guest room door shut behind them.

The physical intimacy, that is so very new, but at the moment she so desperately wants to clean up. What's a little nudity between friends, or whatever they are?

She's about to turn the knob when the shower cuts off. Distantly, through the door and likely the shower curtain, she hears Jonathan release a long, shuddering breath. She freezes; he's been crying.

When the door swings open she is still mostly in the doorway, her brain fogged with fear and slow to react. Jonathan almost smacks into her when he exits, pulls up awkwardly short in front of her. His eyes are red and he looks more tired that she's ever seen him.

"Better?" she asks softly as he stares at her. There is something swirling behind his eyes that she can't name.

"Yeah," he breathes out, blinks a couple of times. "You, um, d'you want to shower?"

"Oh god yes." The relief must show on her face because his eyes soften a little and the corners of his mouth turn up in the barest hint of a smile.

"Go ahead. I'll grab you a towel."

His shoulder brushes against hers as he moves past her, sending a spike of feeling down her spine.

She hears the door open and close as she rinsing her hair, feels the puff of cold air it lets in, but Jonathan doesn’t say a word.

When she gets out she sees he's left not only a towel but also a shirt and a pair of cotton shorts she recognizes from gym class.

The fan has cleared the steam from the mirror and she considers herself in his clothes. The t-shirt is plain, navy blue like the shorts, with black rings around the collar and sleeves. It is big on her and with her wet hair and bare face she thinks she looks like a child, small and sort of lost.

She snorts out a laugh; what fucking bullshit.

The rush of cold air from the hallway clears the last of the steam and her head, and she balls her soiled clothes in her hands. She can hear conversation in the living room, Joyce and Hopper and the kids figuring out the rest of the night, she supposes. She should check on her brother, see how he's coping, and find out what they decided. She stops outside Jonathan's door and knows she won't.

She slips inside, closes the door behind her with a soft click. Jonathan looks up from where he is propped up in bed, dressed in pajamas with ankles and arms crossed, a furrow between his brows. When he sees her it smoothes out.

His eyes drop to the clothes in her hands. "You can toss those in the hamper, um, I'll wash them in the morning."

"Thanks." She crosses his small room, drops them on top of his dirty clothes; his shirt and jeans are on top, stained with sweat as well. Unsure of what to do next, she comes to stand at the foot of his bed. "Is this alright? I mean, I—"

"Yeah," he cuts her off, shaking his head slightly as if clear his thoughts. "No, I—I don't want to be alone. Do you?"

A rush of déjà vu hits her strong enough to make her sway on her feet, makes her hesitate and stutter.

"No, I—No."

His smile appears suddenly, lips quirked up in a grin that seems to surprise him; she wonders if he's remembering as well.

He must, because he uncrosses his arms, holds the right one out, and asks, "Can you just come here?"

She doesn't hesitate. The sheets are soft against her bare legs and Jonathan's chest is hard and warm and his arms wrap tight around her, clutching her close. She slides hers around his waist and squeezes back.

For a moment they are still, wound together. Nancy closes her eyes, focuses on his scent, the smell of soap and laundry detergent and boy underneath it all. Feels his chest expand as he takes a deep breath, feels her damp hair move as he lets it out in a rush. When she opens her eyes again her head feels off-kilter, but in a good way. Dizzy with him.

"You were right," he murmurs into the top of her head. "About the world ending."

"It didn't end." She speaks into his chest.

"Almost. Close enough."

"Jonathan," she sighs and looks up at him, finds him already looking down at her.

It is so easy for her to crane her neck the extra inch, press her lips to his. Her eyes slip shut as he kisses her back. There is a fire somewhere deep in her belly that had been quashed, scared into embers, but she feels the flames begin to lick back to life.

Did he feel something like this when she'd invited him into her bed after that strange, horrible night? He'd tucked the gun between their pillows, kept a careful space between them, laid on top of the covers like a gentleman. But she had felt his eyes on her as she stared at her ceiling, at least before he fell asleep, fearful and something more. As she wonders about what might have gone through his head, he slants his mouth over hers and gently parts her lips. She sighs when he dips his tongue inside.

They kiss, unhurried, for a suspended moment. When he moves away from her she sighs again.

When her eyes open his look is so fond she wants to cry.

"History repeats the old conceits," he whispers, lips barely moving, and for a moment the words hang between them. Then her brow furrows and he blinks, as if coming back to himself.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing I—it's a song lyric."

"A song lyric?"  
  
"It just popped into my head, I don't know why."

Nancy frowns. "Yes you do."

She releases his waist and pulls back; for a moment his grip on her shoulder tightens, like he doesn't want to let her go, then releases. Doubt and uncertainty churn in her gut but not enough to quash the feeling of gratefulness that he does.

She has spent a year being pulled in different directions, she appreciates the chance to steer her own path.

"I—" he starts, stalls, sighs. Looks down at where her hands are resting on her lap, near his thigh, and reaches out once, twice, before taking her hand lightly, like he did after she bandaged his hand on his sofa. "We're in the same place we were last year, aren't we? Will rescued from the brink of something incomprehensible, my family in tatters, your brother obsessed with an equally ridiculous situation, or person, or whatever. Only this time we went and told the press about what was going on and so we're stuck waiting for the other shoe to drop, and who knows what happens then. I don't know what happens now. We don't know who survived this."

" _We_ survived," she can't help but remind him.

"Did we?" His eyes meet hers since the first time he started talking, "it's over but it's not over yet, you know?"

"I know we're here, we're alive, we're together."

"Together," he echoes, sighs. "Is that enough?"

"I don't know, Jonathan, _is it_?"

She feels her jaw sharpen, jut forward a bit. Only Jonathan can needle her this deeply, can make her this irritated and petulant. She holds his gaze, hoping the challenge is clear. His jaw works for a moment, as he works out what he wants to say.

"You tell me, Nancy Wheeler," he finally answers. "Last year you couldn't wait. If you need to wait this year, can you?"

"I _did_ wait," her eyes are blazing and she's angry. She has spent the last three days at his side, she saved his mother's life mere hours ago, but he still won't _trust_ her?

"You set a limit and I didn't even _know_ about it. One month, even though Will was in the hospital for _weeks._ What's my time limit this year, Nancy, because my mom's gotta plan a funeral."

"I needed you too, you know, and just because I couldn't wait forever—"

"That's not fair, Nancy, my brother _almost died_ and you were counting days until I asked you to a movie?"

"And my best friend _did_ die." She wishes she could slap him, she thinks it would feel good. Oh, he drives her _insane_.

"Well, Barb's still dead, Nancy, and Will is still fucked up, so where does that leave us?"

"What the hell, Jonathan. How can you— After you—When you—"

"I what?" His shoulders are moving, his chest heaving, and she realizes she's breathing hard as well. She feels tense, like she's ready to bolt, or pounce. "I _what_ Nancy? Because that's what this seems to keep coming back to. You gave me a month, you waited, you wanted, you, you, you. What _about_ me? None of this is on _my_ terms."

"And what are your _terms_ , Jonathan?"

"That's not—it's not about _just_ what I want, or what you want, or—" He lets go of her hand, scrubs both of his over his face and lets out a long, frustrated sigh. "Why did you come with me tonight?"

She's not expecting that question. "I—Because you needed me. And I need you."

"You said that before. But what do you need me for, Nancy?"

She sighs and looks down. This is hard. This is harder than Steve, than flirtatious eyes and hidden smiles and its own type of bravery, something feminine and instinctual. This is agonizing, an emotional flaying. She has never laid herself bare like this to anyone, not her mother, not Barb.

"For everything." It comes out high and soft, followed by the barest hint of a shrug.

For a long moment he just looks at her, eyes flickering up and down her form as if asking questions he can't give voice to. Then he moves suddenly. His arms come around her, crushing her to him, tilting back with the force of it until she is half on top of him on his bed instead of the forest floor and tangled in his sheets instead of casting off the cobwebs of that _place_. It is all she can do to hold on just as tight.

"Me too," he breathes into her neck, the back of her jaw, her hair. "Jesus, Nancy, me too."

They catch their breath together, clutching until they can inhale without shaking. Only then does he relax beneath her, flopping down so they're on their sides facing each other on one pillow.

Her hand comes up automatically, settling on his cheek. He's not smiling, not quite, but his face is soft even as his eyes are deep. A thrill shoots through her as she looks at him. He looks different, different than the Jonathan she remembers of last year, or last week, or last night, or last second. It's almost like she's unlocked a new set of colors, or maybe a new dimension. He is familiar but different. Her pulse speeds up as she looks at this new boy inches in front of her.

"You're not the only one with things to deal with," she reminds him softly, stroking his cheekbone softly with her thumb. To her surprise no hardness comes into his expression.

"Steve."

"I owe him an explanation. Maybe an apology," she admits. "A year is a long time."

"Do you regret—"

Her stroking stops, fingertips digging into his cheek. "I swear to god, Jonathan, don't you dare ask me to take us back."

"No, no," he laughs softly, "No, I mean do you regret staying with him? I couldn't—sometimes you seemed happy, sometimes you didn't. It was hard to read. You're hard to read."

She has to think about that before she can respond, choosing words carefully. "It's not regret. I needed someone, I did, and you…"

"I was busy." A wry look takes over his face; she feels her own expression echo it.

"And I wasn't ready, I don't think. Steve was what I needed and not what I needed at the same time. I'm still not sure what, exactly, I needed. But he was genuine and he tried, and I owe him more than what we said before I left for the cabin with you."

"You don't have to tell me." Jonathan's eyes are dark and she wants so badly to fall into them forever.

"But I want to." It's her turn to laugh, to resist the temptation to shuffle forward and brush the tip of her nose against his. "I want to tell you everything, all the time." 

"I get it." His tone is light but his expression is serious. "I do, Nance. I really do."

For a long moment they are still and silent, eyes locked. She thinks she sees a promise in his. She hopes he sees the promise in hers.

"Okay?" She tucks her chin slightly.

"Okay." He does smile then, closes his eyes and tilts his chin and lets his forehead rest on hers.

She follows his lead. In the dark red of the back of her eyelids there is only the warmth radiating from his bare arms and the whisper of his breath on her upper lip. She wishes he would kiss her; she wishes they could stay exactly like this forever.

And despite all the fear, all the trauma, she feels sleep tugging at the edges of her mind. If they stay like this she could just drift off, as unlikely as that felt even half an hour ago. She feels safe in his arms.

"D'you think you'll be able to sleep?" she murmurs absently. His chuckle is nothing more than a puff of breath.

"Not a chance."

It takes only the smallest change in his position and he is kissing her once more. Her hand slides from his cheek to his hair, and his from her waist to her lower back, pulling her against him. Her skin breaks out in gooseflesh, her nipples harden against the borrowed t-shirt, and she can feel an answering reaction where her thigh is trapped between his legs. As they shift against each other, kisses deepening, the temptation to let this get out of control buzzes under her skin.

He pulls back a millisecond before there's a quick, single knock behind her, the sound of the knob turning and his mother's voice.

"Jonathan, sweetie, can you come here a minute?"

She can't help it; she pouts. His laugh is quiet, and he is already moving, pressing himself up.

"Yeah, Mom, of course."

When he's up on his knees he swoops down and presses a quick, hard kiss to her frown. Another thrill shoots through her, like cresting a roller coaster. She has to bite back a giggle.

Then he's gone.

She presses her hand to her mouth, letting the emotions swell inside her then recede like waves. When she turns over Jonathan and Joyce are no longer in the doorway, but it is open to the hall.

She can hear their voices and beyond them younger ones, fainter and definitely more tired. She catches words like "water" and "sheets" and "phone." Their conversation is not hushed.

With a distant flash of guilt for being the reason they don't have a working phone, Nancy shakes her head. Clears her thoughts and tries to push away the giddy, girly feeling inside her. Once she moves, once she leaves this bed, she will be back in the real world with Mike and monsters and psychic girls and government labs and ex-boyfriends.

And a quiet boy with dirty blonde hair and eyes that see right through her.

She gets up and walks into the hall.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Jonathan blurts out lyrics from is "Beyond Belief," by Elvis Costello: "History repeats the old conceits/the glib replies the same defeats"
> 
> At some point, I don't remember when, I became enamored of the idea that the scene in Nancy's room after Jonathan pulls her out of the tree in Season 1 probably happened, in some form, after the trauma of The Gate. So I wrote it. How many ways can I write post-Gate fic? I don't know, but apparently we're gonna find out.


End file.
